28. Chapter 28
Chapter 28
A fter a shower and a sandwich, I scanned my apartment. It could use a good clean. I wasn’t the type of person to clean when I felt upset or needed to pass the time—in fact, I thought that such a tendency was quite bizarre—but for some reason, cleaning sounded like a good idea today. Besides, it needed to be done; cleaning hadn’t been high on my list of priorities lately.
My apartment was gross, even by my own low standards.
I’d almost succeeded in peacefully finishing a deep clean of the kitchen when the intrusive thoughts started. These unwelcome thoughts, of course, centered on my conversation with Jack. Unsurprisingly, he wanted to avoid me today; I’d had the same instinct, obviously—hence the elevator.
We’d had some tension between us for a while now, but the events of yesterday were taking the awkwardness to a new level. Instead of being unwilling to discuss our separate love lives with each other, we were now unwilling to discuss what had happened between us. Did Jack regret it?
Of course he does , and although his goal to offer comfort was certainly noble, even Jack isn’t that noble.
Regret was probably not a familiar feeling to Jack, who usually made reasonable, measured decisions that he had no cause to regret. It must have been the pity and sadness at seeing me so upset that caused him to act in ways he normally never would. Desperate measures.
I stared at the spot on the now-pristine blue tiled floor that I’d scrubbed for quite a while. “Enough!” I shouted. “I’m not going to overanalyze this. It happened, and we can’t change it. We both regret it, and it will never happen again. Obviously.” I attempted to ignore the little voice inside me hinting at a different version of events—that although I certainly regretted the aftermath, it was hard to regret the actual experience, which was kind of amazing, albeit only for a fleeting moment.
Putting my cleaning supplies back in the utility closet, I promised myself to clean more later. Would writing help sort out my feelings? Or, even better, help me confront and then promptly forget about them.
Sitting down at my desk and opening my laptop, I recalled where my story left off. The last time I’d written was a week ago, before the weekend trip with Gregory, when I was excited and, well, delusional. I was struck by just how much had changed in that short time.
But after a few minutes of staring at a blank new chapter, I buried my face in my palms. Where should the story go now? I had no idea. Gregory’s betrayal was hardly a worthy inspiration for Elizabeth and Darcy’s happy ending. I chewed on my lip.
And Jack’s role in the story, well, I wouldn’t even think about that.
Maybe I could write the happy ending that I’d wanted for my characters—for myself, for Annie. Writing about love conquering all might be painful, but it’s what any reader of my story would rightly want and expect. The happily ever after is non-negotiable, or so I’d been told by every romance writing group I’d joined.
But … did the novel have to be a romance? Austen’s books were so much more than just romance. I wrinkled my brow, considering the possibilities.
I could write the truth. That would be painful in a different way, and the worst part is that I had no idea how it would end. Did it end here?
No one will want to read such a depressing, pathetic ending to Austen’s beloved characters.
I sighed heavily as I rested my chin on my hand. Then again, they were my characters, so I could write the story however I wanted.
Even if I wrote the story true to life, it simply couldn’t end here. It just couldn’t. There had to be a better ending for my characters, because there had to be a better ending for me .
I had to believe that.
Groaning, I closed my laptop while swiveling in my chair. Writing just wasn’t going to happen today. I needed to figure out my life first. But where to start? I should really return my phone calls and emails and maybe reach out to Jenn or even my new friend Jane for emotional support. Or maybe book a session with my old therapist. Or journal about it.
No.
Very reasonable ideas, but no.
Feeling stubborn, I reopened my laptop and resolved to start searching for new freelance work. If I were going to feel aimless and unproductive, not to mention uninspired, I might as well use my time to start looking for a new job so that I never had to work for that lying, cheating jerk again. Cringing as I thought about Annie, I felt sad that my friend had been played but even sadder that we were apparently no longer friends. I wondered if Annie could still stomach working for Bolder after things eventually fizzled, which they assuredly would. If they hadn’t already.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I landed on one of my favorite freelancing sites. Scrolling through many freelance postings would normally make for a tedious afternoon that I’d ardently avoid, but the idea of ditching Bolder and everyone associated with it was a rather powerful motivator.
For much of the week, the job search somehow managed to sustain my energy and thoughts, along with frequent runs along the new trail as the spring weather offered near-ideal running temperatures and budding flowers in every direction. I even discovered a side path that led to my very favorite place in the city, a small but gorgeous botanical garden surrounded by thick trees and shrubs that blocked out the city view.
My phone had been turned off for several days, a record for me, and I didn’t really miss it. I even set up a new email account just for job search, so I didn’t have to use my usual account and face whatever might be waiting for me there.
But I finally decided to check my phone messages on Thursday, and a guilty feeling settled in my midsection when I saw just how many messages and calls I’d missed. Jane, Jenn, Belinda, my sister, my mother, and of course, Ellen.
Nothing from Gregory. Not another word from Jack.
I felt the most guilt about my sister. Although we weren’t terribly close, we lived near one another, so we had no good excuse not to see each other often. I figured Lillian probably wanted me to babysit, but my sister had always had a lot of friends willing to help, so I didn’t feel particularly bad about not having the time (or, let’s face it, the interest) to do that. Still, I felt nagging guilt, so I texted Lillian a sincere apology, asking how she was doing.
Almost instantly, Lillian replied, asking if I was free that weekend. I sighed, recognizing that as the first question leading up to “Want to babysit?”
But I had to be honest: I had nothing to do this weekend, apart from running. Even my run would be shorter than usual, as it was time to start tapering for the race just over a week away.
Babysitting turned out to be mostly uneventful, or as uneventful as a day with Catarina, Jella, and Charlie can be. They were mostly sweet kids and lots of fun, but as with all kids, they had their difficult moments, especially Cat. Fortunately, they liked me. A lot. So the only tears were the ones shed when I left to go home.
I had to blink back tears myself, realizing that I’d missed seeing my sister’s family. They knew nothing about what my life had become lately, and there was a lot of comfort in that. Now it was time to return to my empty apartment, where I’d probably just resume the job search. I’d identified quite a few leads but needed to spend more time gathering and updating my resume and other materials. I could call Jenn and Jane and update them on my situation, or … maybe not.
My friends have their own lives . They’re not sitting by the phone waiting to hear about mine .
“Viv, you answered your phone!”
“I … yes. Lillian, is that you?”
“Of course it’s me , sis. Silly little sis,” said the person claiming to be Lillian, right before I hiccupped.
“What’s wrong, Lillian?”
“I miss you. Can’t I just miss you? Hang on.”
I heard the sound of a cork popping, followed by silence and then a burp. My perfect big sister, burping and obviously wasted.
“OK, well, we just saw each other,” I said uneasily. “So what’s up?”
“Nothing is up , sissy. What’s up with you? Like how’s your fabulous single life, sans kids? I suppose it’s fabulous,” Lillian said with a giggle.
“My … life is far from fabulous,” I said wryly. “Who are you, and what have you done with my older sister?”
After some cajoling, Lillian finally blurted out that her life was crumbling, and then she burst into tears. Her picture-perfect life was, in fact, anything but. The stress of being a working mother in academia and trying to be the perfect wife of a highly successful banker (who was probably cheating) had come to a head recently, and she’d started drinking nightly. And taking pills, whose name she claimed not to recall. She was on the verge of asking for a divorce or fleeing the country or telling her department chair to go to hell.
I listened in shock and tried to soothe my sister. But I had zero experience comforting my sister—there had never been a need before. Lillian could do no wrong, I’d thought. She seemed to have a perfect life, always having everything together, never showing any flaws. Except maybe aloofness. Yes, definitely aloofness.
“Oh, wow, I’m such a mess. I can’t believe I’m telling you all this. Bah, so depressing.” She paused and blew her nose.
“Lill … believe it or not, it’s actually OK to not be perfect. I might like you a lot more, in fact.” Then, I winced. That hadn’t come out right at all.
After a moment, Lillian giggled. “Maybe we should be honest with each other more often. Or at least, like, once in a while. Now it’s your turn … tell me about your fabulous single life or your last breakup or whatever it is you are doing these days. Mom mentioned you were dating someone.”
I hesitated. There was no chance my sister would understand any of my current problems, but maybe she had a point. We were never really vulnerable with each other, at least as long as I could remember. Maybe we could have a real relationship. I was probably being delusional as usual, but … what if?
“OK, but only if you stop saying ‘fabulous’ in connection with my life. It’s laughable but also sad, and I’ve had enough sad lately.”
“Deal. Tell me about your non-fabulous life, sissy.”
I took a deep breath and told her everything. The novel, Gregory and Brandon, the convention, Annie, Jack, running, job hunting, even my fears of going on the dream vacay to Italy alone. Jack.
“I called it! I always knew you and Jack would end up together,” Lillian said, excitement in her tone. “It’s about damn time.”
“No, we’re not—I didn’t say—we’re not together. We’re friends. Friends who did something we regret, but just friends. At least I hope we stay friends … things feel strained now.” A single tear made its way down my face. “OK, enough about me, Lill. Let’s fix your life. Let me help you for once.”
“Viv, I am …” my sister trailed off and then inhaled and exhaled audibly. “I’m sorry. I could’ve been a better sister to you.” Pausing, she added in a small voice, “I want to be.”
“Me too. And you already are.” I swiped at my damp cheeks. “By the way, please don’t breathe a word of … any of my issues. Especially the Jack stuff. I need to find my own way.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, little sis. We’ll keep each other’s secrets. So, all this is probably why neither of us has committed to going on Mom and Dad’s big trip next year, huh? I mean, it sounds so fun, but also … ugh, my life is such a mess now, I can’t worry about next summer. You know what I’m saying, don’t you, sissy?” Lillian giggled. “But let’s talk more when I’m sober, OK? I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”
“Deal.” I felt my mouth curved into a grin. “I love you, by the way, and you’re still perfect to me.”
I set the phone down, walking over to a photo on the wall of my sister and me from quite a few years ago. Staring in wonder, I couldn’t believe I’d been so wrong about Lillian. So many assumptions I’d made. Lillian had just as many problems as anyone else, maybe more. And I’d been wrong about Gregory. Brandon. Who else?
And then there was Jack.
As the days had passed without word from Jack, I became increasingly anxious as the half-marathon approached. We’d signed up and planned to run together as we always had in the past, so it would be strange if we didn’t run together this time. Still, I had no idea what to expect. Would we race together as usual? Would it be awkward? Would we talk? Or would he avoid me? Would I avoid him?
As the questions plagued me, it became increasingly difficult to stay firm in my resolve to not think about him and about what had happened. But stay firm I would—it was my only hope. I didn’t dare ask myself why.